:As Herald-trainee Mags,: Dallen prompted. :And nod your head a little to him. And smile.:

Mags did all these things, and the man waved him through the door, announcing at the same time in a clarion voice, “Herald-trainee Mags.” There was a small entryway into which he passed, a tiny box of a room that opened up into another space that was much, much larger.

The enormous room just past the entryway was about half full of guests, but even at only half full, there must have been more than a hundred people in it. It was at least as big as the dining hall at the Collegium. It, too, had a high ceiling, two stories tall at least, and there were many windows along the wall behind Mags. The ceiling was criss-crossed with heavy black beams, from which hung garlands of evergreen branches. The pungent pine scent filled the air, added to by the spice-and-apple scent of mulled cider. The walls were white plaster and black beams just like the outside, hung with gorgeous tapestries, and there was a huge fireplace at the end opposite the door, easily big enough to roast an entire ox. Benches lined the walls with tables between; if they were all like the one nearest Mags, they were laden with things to eat and cauldrons of hot mulled cider. People seemed to sit or stand or walk about as they fancied.

Another servant took Mags’ cloak as there was a little stir, and Master Soren came striding up to him, both hands extended in greeting. Today he was dressed as Mags would have expected a man of his rank and wealth to dress; in wine-colored velvet and fine linen, with a silver belt around his tunic and a silver chain around his neck.

“Mags! Welcome!” He took one of Mags’ hands in both his and shook it. “Come this way, and I’ll introduce you to some of my guests.”

Mags followed him with some trepidation; if Master Soren took him to meet some of the King’s advisors or other important people—well, he wasn’t certain what he would do or say.

But Soren did nothing of the kind; instead, he brought Mags to one side of the huge fireplace where, to Mags’ intense relief, there was a group of people about his age.

“Lydia, this is Mags, who found the bird in your ring. Mags, this is my niece Lydia.”

Lydia, a sweet-faced girl with a tumble of intensely red curls smiled up at him, her smile warming her eyes which were as green as fine beryls. Mags saw she was wearing the ring her uncle had bought her yesterday. “That is so clever of you! But from what Uncle says, you bought your skill rather dearly. I am glad that horrible man is not going to be able to continue as he has been.”